


Maybe it'll be different tomorrow

by Mozzarella



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Fiddlestan - Relationship - Freeform, Fiddlestan's the end game here, Hate to Love, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mystery Trio, One-Sided Attraction, Sorry Ford Squared shippers but that bit is strictly onesided, fiddlestan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:12:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4374962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozzarella/pseuds/Mozzarella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiddleford knew he'd found his soulmate in Stanford Pines way back in college, even if he never dared to admit it to anybody. So it was no surprise that he was willing to drop everything (a promising career, a comfortable marriage with a son on the way) to help him with his invention years later. </p><p>Even if he never said it, Fiddleford knew he and Stanford were the perfect team. </p><p>So why, oh why, did Stanford feel the need to invite his good-for-nothing brother Stanley to the project? And how could somebody as perfect as Stanford have a twin so... not? </p><p>(Or the one where Fiddleford is in hopelessly secretly love with Stanford Pines, and hates his brother Stanley... at first)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling in love

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will be varied. Hope you guys like my first attempt at a Gravity Falls fic! Mystery Trio trash forever. 
> 
> NOTE: Following canon of A Tale of Two Stans but has Stanley come to Ford years earlier

It was a bad idea. A bad idea, and a right dangerous one at that, if Fiddleford wanted to preserve their friendship.

 

Ford Pines was the first person in Backupsmore that gave Fiddleford hope that maybe not getting into his dream school (after accidentally blowing out a wall in the high school gym during one of his experiments and sending at least one talent scout to the hospital with minor burns) wasn't such a bad thing. After all, even if the school wasn't excellent, that didn't mean the people couldn't be.

 

And Ford was just that. Excellent. More than excellent, really. He was legendary.

 

College wasn't exactly like high school, where people got bullied for the most arbitrary of things and shoved into lockers for being too short, being too nerdy, a weird accent, playing the banjo, or having six fingers and a big brain.

 

College didn't have as many lockers as high school, for a start.

 

But more than that, you got respect—or at least respectful distance—when you were good at something in college.

 

Ford was a novelty at first, with his six fingers and penchant for asking questions, but among the science majors he was the one to beat, and Fiddleford watched over the following months in growing awe the way Ford captured everybody's attention with his unironic, enthusiastic, ever-growing interest in... well, everything.

 

And Fiddleford couldn't admit it, out loud, to anybody else, and barely even to himself, but Ford was... well, he was handsome.

 

He wasn't tall, at least not taller than Fiddleford, but he had attractively broad shoulders (which were most obvious when he was feeling particularly excited or proud of one discovery or another, standing like some kind of sci-fi superhero), a handsome face, and eyes that twinkled almost manically in his unending pursuit of knowledge and the unknown.

 

The first time they'd properly met, both taking the same PhD courses in Mechanical Engineering and Theoretical Physics (whose projects were like the scientific equivalent of a single stitched Build-A-Bear), both intelligent enough to find the time for side projects, both wanting to do more than what Backupsmore was giving them.

 

That similarity was one of the many things that convinced Fiddleford that Stanford was perfect for...

 

Well.

 

Perfect.

 

Even if not for him.

 

Their classmates even came up with a name for them whenever they were seen running around together—Ford Squared—and while Stanford was the one who was really getting the praise, Fiddleford wasn't exactly far behind in his achievements, and it only took him a year more than Ford to earn his PhD.

 

Fiddleford thought that he'd found the one true kindred spirit he had in the world.

 

And then Ford ran off to Oregon.

 

Well, alright, he didn't  _run_ off. He and Fiddleford spent a lot of time together in their off days up until Fiddleford's graduation, but all Ford could talk about was what he was planning to use his grant for, something that Fiddleford loved to hear about, but was getting increasingly nervous thinking about. 

 

Ford was gonna go off somewhere Fiddleford couldn't follow unless he was willing to put all his cards on the table. There was no reasonable explanation for him wanting to go with Stanford Pines to some weird nowhere county in the backwoods of Oregon, especially when he had some promising career choices in other places—Palo Alto, for example, where he might find the time to develop his ideas for a portable personal computer.

 

So with some regret he shared with nobody, he said goodbye “And congratulations, buddy,” to a happy and excited Stanford Pines, and that was that.

 

 

A few years on, Fiddleford was married (with a childhood friend and “sweetheart” who Fiddleford's parents had been pressuring him to marry, for whom he felt enough affection to justify marriage in “celebration” of conservative southern tradition) and working on a project he was almost certain would bring about no small amount of success... when the phone rang one day, while Fiddleford practiced on his banjo, trying to get the numbers to work in his head.

 

When he heard that voice in his ear (the voice that had been on the back of his mind, the voice that he'd heard in his dreams), his mind stopped thinking in numbers and started thinking in colors, shapes, and unseemly images that sprung from the deepest part of his subconscious.

 

It took him a moment to process what his old college friend was telling him, but when he did, his mind busted out the numbers once again, this time in a way that they'd never done before.

 

“Why that's mathematically feasible!” he said, more to himself than to Stanford. “I reckon,” he added, thinking about how he'd basically agreed to abandon all his work for a theoretical hypothetical door to another universe that you only ever saw in science fiction.

 

Well, alright. Maybe not  _just_ for the portal. 

 

He wasn't entirely sure how much of his life he'd be giving to Ford Pines, but he knew it'd be a lot the moment he stepped off the bus at Gravity Falls, Oregon. 

 

 


	2. Falling in Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford works with Stanford in Gravity Falls, and doesn't ask the questions he really ought to start asking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the amazing response guys! This is still kind of a developing chapter, but I hope you guys enjoy anyway!

It was almost laughable how much Fidds hated the word “buddy”, at least the way it came out of Stanford's mouth.

 

He didn't used to, but denial had long since found its way out the door and into the backwoods of Oregon and Fiddleford wasn't going to lie to himself anymore about his feelings for the brilliant man.

 

No, he was just gonna lie to everybody else—especially the brilliant man in question.

 

And though Stanford didn't notice it (he barely noticed anything that wasn't his research some days), Fiddleford Mcgucket hated being called Ford's buddy. It was a distance reminding him of who Ford saw him as, and it hurt.

 

Still, he couldn't risk what they had—the rapport and rhythm that they had—on embarrassingly adolescent urges he'd long since learned to repress.

 

One good thing that came from moving to Oregon was that his wife seemed to love it there. It was like a storybook, she said, with all the forests and the lake nearby—the perfect, picturesque place to raise their son.

 

And as long as they kept away from the more dangerous and deeper parts of the first, Fiddleford agreed with her.

 

He knew all too well about Ford's love for supernatural strangeness, had noticed it since college when they 'nerded out's over the latest sci-fi tales the networks were putting out. He just never realized how real it was, at least not until Ford began to show him the entirely new world of Gravity Falls beyond the fringes of the reality Fiddleford knew.

 

He knocked on the tiny, gnarled doors that led into the homes of the gnomes, he paddled out onto a lake while a strange shadow swam under them, spanning a dozen lengths of their own rowboat, he saw a bear with many heads stalking the cliffs—all these experiences, all these adventures, he had Stanford Pines to thank for.

 

“This is the greatest gift anybody's given me, you know,” he said once, quietly, hoping that Stanford wouldn't hear over the roar of the wind as they looked down on the wondrous sight that was the floating cliff. “All this... all the things you've shown me. I thought we'd be holed up in a basement the whole time, but this is... well, it's beyond anything I ever imagined, Ford.” 

 

“Isn't it astounding?” Ford said. “I'm glad to share it with you.” 

 

Fiddleford looked up with a cautious smile, warmth blooming in his chest, but then with a brief grin returned, Stanford looked away, saying “I hope to share it with the world one day. All this... this is what my research has accomplished. And soon, my greatest achievement will be realized, all thanks to you, my friend.”

 

After that, he began to explain his theories to Fiddleford a mile a minute about how the cliff stayed up, and the moment was shattered as Stanford didn't notice Fiddleford's gaze drop to the ground, rather than to the anomalous cliff.

 

* * *

 

While Fiddleford was happy to be dragged along with Ford on some new field research, he was happiest working on their joint project, an absurd amount of time spent in the secret basement in Ford's house, one that could only be accessed by elevator—an ingenious design, if he did say so himself.

 

When he got the designs down, Ford was eager enough to entrust the work to Fiddleford while he worked on his journals upstairs, muttering to himself in a way that sounded like he was talking to somebody, although Fiddleford could appreciate the need to say things aloud to make them make sense in your head.

 

It did happen at one point that Fiddleford walked into Stanford actually happily conversing with the wall, not the way one would do when tasting ideas on one's tongue, but an actual conversation, one side of which Fiddleford couldn't hear.

 

He tried not to think too much of it. After all, Stanford had never been the most social of people, and one of the many reasons Fiddleford never brought up his interest in himwas that he knew if he broke friendly ties now that Stanford wasn't likely to make any new friends. “I only ever need one,” he'd said once, when Fiddleford absently wondered if he ever considered having others, and the words sounded rehearsed, like some distant memory that Stanford wasn't willing to elaborate on.

 

He would rather be Stanford's friend and make sure he wasn't alone than risk the distance an ill-timed, ill-intended offer of romance would put between them.

 

He loved him enough that that made sense.

 

Especially now that solitude did not seem to agree with Stanford at all.

 

“Ford? Ford, are you...” 

 

He was so still when Fiddleford found him that night, sitting upright at the dinner table, that Fiddleford thought he might have fallen asleep—but no. Walking around him, Fiddleford had to suppress a yelp when he saw that Stanford's eyes were wide open, bloodshot and barely blinking, while his fingers twitched wildly.

 

“Ford!?” Fiddleford grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing the man to look at him, but the moment Fiddleford was able to get a good look at Stanford's eyes, the distant, frightening look in them had gone, and Ford blinked at him in confusion before smiling much the same way. 

 

“Sorry, I... must've fallen asleep. Thanks for waking me, buddy, I probably would've gotten a sore neck if I stayed.” 

 

“Ford, you weren't... You were...” Fiddleford began, not sure how to bring up the fact that his friend had looked like he'd been possessed only moments ago—but by what, Fiddleford was afraid to ask. 

 

“That is, you should take care of yourself more,” he said eventually, patting Ford on the shoulder when he realized where he'd kept his hands. “And maybe stop worrying me sick about your sleeping habits while you're at it.” 

 

“Yes, yes,” Ford said absently. “As nice as I'm sure it'd be to have you tuck me into bed, you're right. I do need to take care of myself more.” He rubbed at his eyes as he continued thoughtfully, “You reminded me a bit of my brother just now, you know. He used to always make sure I got some shuteye, especially when I was up late reading the sci-fi novelsI borrowed from the library everyday. Told me once that me reading past midnight drove him crazy, but I'm pretty sure he just wanted to make sure I got some sleep.”

 

His tone had taken a turn for the wistful, and Fiddleford followed him cautiously as he stood to go back to his room, which was fortunately on the first floor as Fiddleford worried he might trip over the broken step if he tried climbing the stairs. 

 

“You don't talk about your brother all that much,” Fiddleford said. “But he sounds like a swell guy.” 

 

Ford's brows furrowed for a moment, as if confused by Fiddleford's statement. “I should, uh. Huh. I should call him. Don't know why I haven't. I'm pretty sure he sent me a number, or an address, a little while back.” 

 

“Tomorrow, Stanford,” Fiddleford said, firmly but gently pushing his friend to his room. 

 

“Tomorrow, yeah. Thanks, Fidds.” 

 

He stood at the entrance to Stanford's room until the man slumped into his bed, asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, and Fiddleford curiously eyed the framed photo on the table laying face down, alongside the photos of Ford during his graduation, his parents and elder brother present—Shermy, if Fiddleford remembered correctly, almost certainly not the brother Stanford had mentioned earlier. 

 

He'd said his name once before, and Fiddleford remembered how absurdly close it was to Ford's own. 

 

Stanley. Stanley Pines. 

 

Quietly and cautiously, Fiddleford peeked under the down-turned frame, and found in it the photo of two happy teens, Ford's smile something entirely different here—more special than any smile Fiddleford had ever seen, mirrored by his (twin, Fiddleford realized) brother, who looked both exactly like Ford and nothing like him at all. 

 

Taking his curiosity with him, Fiddleford returned to his work, his mind buzzing with questions as he swore to himself he'd get his own share of shuteye in the morning. 

 


	3. The Twin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanford talks about his brother and Fiddleford internalizes more than he should

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, with a cliffhanger (Sorry guys!). I'm pretty inspired, though it's pretty late and I need to get some rest, so here's a bit of a taster before we get to the meaty bits. Still gotta figure out how to write Fiddleford and Stanley's meeting. Been having loads of ideas for scenes that happen much later in the story, but I don't wanna get ahead of myself, so I better figure out this bit first. 
> 
> Thank you all so so much for the comments and kudos and all the appreciation! You guys, you guys get me.

“He ruined my life.” 

 

“Pardon?” 

 

“I mean... At the time, that was what I thought,” Stanford said, scratching the back of his head. “I was so angry. And then I was scared—scared to talk back to my father.” 

 

He straightened up, noting the confused look on Fiddleford's face. He shrugged, smiling sheepishly.

 

“My brother, Stanley. My, uh, twin brother.” 

 

“The one you don't talk about,” Fiddleford said, hoping it didn't sound as dry to Ford as it did to his own ears. 

 

“That's the one. We used to be inseparable. Kind of a dynamic duo type deal. I'd help him at school, he'd help me at everything else. We weren't exactly... we didn't make that many friends on our own. In fact, now that I think about it, you're the closest friend I've ever had that wasn't my brother, which tells you a lot about my flowering social life.” 

 

“So when you said I reminded you of him...” Fiddleford began uncertainly, not liking where he himself was turning the conversation. Stanford looked surprised. 

 

“Did I say that? I mean, I guess you're both good at making me take care of myself, but you two are as different as... as... I'm terrible at metaphors, but let's just say you likely won't get along when you meet him.” 

 

“What— _When_ I meet him? What do you mean _when_?” 

 

Fiddleford sighed as the ceiling suddenly became interesting enough for Stanford to stare at it. “Uhhh, well. That is. I, um...”

 

“You invited your brother over?” Fiddleford said, filling in the blanks. 

 

“Yes, well. I got a call about a week ago, and I think he needs my help. He didn't actually say that, but even after all these years, I can tell when he's trying to save face. Asked if he could visit, stay on for a few days, catch up, maybe. That's Stan speak for _I'm desperate enough to call you after all these years of radio silence beyond the occasional postcard because I need help and maybe a place to stay.”_

 

“You never said why you two were estranged,” Fiddleford said cautiously, and Ford frowned, looking down with the calm of an old anger that had long since passed, but might not have yet been forgiven. 

 

“He ruined my life. I was supposed to be accepted into West Coast Tech...” 

 

“So was I,” Fiddleford said absently, remembering with a wince his failure and the cost of repairs for the damage he wrought on his high school. 

 

“And I could've made it! But then Stanley, he wasn't ready for me to leave, so he sabotaged my project.” 

 

“That sounds awful,” Fiddleford said, feeling a bit guilty about how he was grateful for that particular betrayal that he was able to cross paths with somebody as brilliant as Stanford in a school that didn't promise much greatness. 

 

“It was... it was a mistake,” Ford said. “But the damage was done, and I confronted him at home... and then my father got involved and he kicked Stan out of the house, said he cost my family potential millions by sabotaging my future. We hadn't really spoken since, though he sends postcards to let us know where he is, with numbers to contact and all that. I kept wondering if I should call sometime, but I was too busy thinking about my future and working on my thesis, and he seemed to be doing alright in sales. I guess he's hit a rut, though, if he was desperate enough to call me.” 

 

“How long will he be staying, then?” Fiddleford asked. 

 

“I don't know. I was hoping long enough to help us with the test runs.” 

 

“The test—Stanford, you're not seriously thinking of askin' your brother to assist on the extremely delicate experiments we're conducting? You just now told me as much as I know about the guy—which is that he's good at breaking complex machinery.” 

 

“You said we might need at least three people for safety measures, in case something goes wrong,” Stanford said pointedly. “And I don't want to ask somebody who I don't trust or don't already have a history with to take part in something so huge. Now my brother... he may have wronged me in the past but I firmly believe I can trust him with this. At least more than anybody here in Gravity Falls, or any specialist we might be calling in to run tests later. It'll be fine, Fidds. Don't worry.” 

 

He lay a firm, warm hand on Fiddleford's shoulder, and Fidds smiled fondly, shaking his head. “You tell me not to worry when you're the one who just said we're sure not to get along.”

 

Stanford laughed at that, a short but hearty chuckle. Fiddleford wondered if his brother laughed much the same way, which led to thoughts of how different the two would actually be.

 

He'd known a pair of twins in his younger years, and they'd been inseparable. Identical, always running around together, a matched set. They were a bit different, one liking sports and popular enough but not quite the social butterfly, and the other good with the girls but better with his grades. Even as they grew older they got along, and Fiddleford wondered sometimes what it must be like to have somebody to depend on like that, the level of trust they must have had for one another, having been together from the womb.

 

Now he wondered what it must have been like to have that trust broken so thoroughly that it took them... what? Seven, eight years? Just to see each other again.

 

But more than anything, he wondered what Stanley Pines was like. Wondered if his affection for Stanford would carry over to liking his brother. Stanford was no help at all—he kept giving Fiddleford contradictory accounts about how utterly great and how unbearably awful his brother was, and by the end of about two weeks, Fiddleford found himself sick to his stomach at the prospect that the duo was soon to become a trio, quite possibly throwing off the entire rhythm he and Stanford had. The fact that Stanley Pines was probably the one person in the world who knew Stanford better than Fiddleford ever had, maybe even ever would, definitely intimidated him.

 

And (a small, traitorous voice in the back of Fiddleford's head whispered) if there was somebody else around to see Fiddleford the way Stanford did not, they might just notice all the stolen glances, and the way Fiddleford stared at Stanford when he wasn't looking back.

 

They—he. He might just ruin everything.

 

But Fiddleford wasn't going to tell Stanford that.

 

* * *

 

Stanley Pines came to Gravity Falls exactly sixteen days after Fiddleford found out he was coming.

 

And true to Stanford's word, the two did not get along _at all._

 


	4. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford and Stanley meet, and the experience is both amusing and terrible

It was about a month after Stanley “Stan” Pines arrived at Gravity Falls that he and Fiddleford finally had some small breakthrough in their tenuous and questionable relationship (relationship being mutual irritation, a lot of sniping, and a shared affection for the same person the only reason they ever even interacted).

 

The breakthrough had been as epic as the little war they'd been waging behind Stanford's back, a series of insults and the mildest forms of physical violence they could think of, from pinching to light punches and elbow jabs to the stomach. Certainly it was much more dangerous than their grade school squabble.

 

But it was a month before that fateful day, and a long, arduous month at that.

 

Fiddleford and Stanley had a bad start, and that didn't change for a while. Not even the idea that he might work with him made Fiddleford warm up to the man, especially since Stan was clearly not getting with the program the first time Ford brought it up. At first he was skeptical, then confused, then simply apprehensive, saying he wasn't sure if he wanted to get tangled up in whatever it was “Ford Squared” had gotten themselves deep into, a fact which irritated Fiddleford to no end. Not that it seemed to bother Ford though, who simply smiled a strangely knowing smile at his brother and offered to let him stay for a while.

 

Everything about Stanley grated on Fiddleford's nerves, from his crass jokes to his shady past and questionable mullet and stubble combo that made him look a vagabond all over.

 

He tried to remind himself that appearances could be deceiving and that he ought not to judge books by their covers, but Stanley's personality pretty much fit his look. He was a liar and a con artist, likely on the run from the law, and that this... this questionable character shared Stanford's face but nothing else certainly didn't help matters.

 

Neither did their first meeting. 

 

In Fiddleford's defense, he'd been distracted when he came up from the lab, and the twins stood at about the same height, with more of the same posture than he'd dare admit ,despite their years of separation. He'd gone on for about five minutes about calculations and what they'd have to record when they put the dummy through the portal while the other man just stood there in silence, long enough that Fiddleford got annoyed.

 

“Stanford, are you even listenin'—”

 

“Nope. But to be fair to me, I'm listening about as much as you're looking.”

 

Fiddleford's head whipped up, greeted with a cocky grin on a face that was very significantly _not_ Ford, but hearkened back to the Ford that existed only in Fiddleford's mind, right before something inappropriate and embarrassing and highly pleasurable would happen. 

 

That unfortunate thought process short circuited something in Fiddleford's brain for just a moment, long enough for him to respond by smacking the newcomer upside the head with the hardbound he'd been using as a surface for his notes. 

 

“Stanford! Where are you, there's something in the hallway and it's got your face!” 

 

“Hey, what—quit it, you twerp!” 

 

“Ow, hey!” 

 

“Fiddleford, what—Stan?” 

 

When Stanford emerged from his room, it was to Fiddleford trapped in a headlock while he tried to swat him with the book over and over, both of them ceasing their struggles when Ford spoke. 

 

“What are you doing here?” Ford demanded. 

 

“I said I was coming weeks ago, poindexter, or were you too busy with your professional nerding out here in the woods to remember?” Stan responded dryly, still not letting go of the skinnier man. 

 

“No, I mean, what are you doing in my house? I didn't hear you knock, or ring the bell.” 

 

Stanley looked almost sheepish at that, and Ford sighed, laughing a little. “Classic you. C'mere, you big lug. And please let my friend go, he's starting to look a little blue around the collar.” 

 

Fiddleford huffed, almost falling over when Stanley Pines finally let him go. 

 

He watched as the twins went in for a hug, only for Ford to punch him hard in the arm. 

 

“Hey, ow!” Stanley yelped. “What was that for?”

 

“For breaking into my house, you knucklehead,” Ford said a bit smugly before giving the man a proper hug. Stanley flinched for a moment, and though Ford seemed not to think much of it, probably writing it off as caution in case he might throw another punch, Fiddleford wasn't so sure. 

 

He'd seen spooked animals acting just like Stanley Pines did, and it chilled him to see that hunted look on a human being. 

 

“And for bothering my friend here,” Ford added as an afterthought. 

 

“He hit me first!” Stan defended. “Started yelling something about me being a _thing_ and having your face. I thought you said you were running around with geniuses, but this guy seems a few screws short of a working machine.” 

 

Fiddleford bristled. “For your information, I am  _not_ crazy. I was just... caught off-guard,” he finished lamely. “I thought it might have been another shapeshifter, or maybe a doppelganger of some kind,” he then said, addressing Stanford. 

 

“A what?” Stan said, bewildered. “Are you telling me you've been filling this guy's head with your spookums and scareums while the two of you have been working on god knows what mechanical affront against nature out here in the woods?” 

 

“Stan, that's not... listen, how about I go from the beginning? We can catch up a little, and I can talk to you about what you can do for me while you stay here.” 

 

Stan's face fell ever so slightly, and Fiddleford was surprised he'd caught it. 

 

“Yeah, sure. Guess I shouldn'a expected you to take me in out of the kindness of your heart,” he muttered, just barely loud enough to be heard. 

 

“Come on, Stan,” Ford said, his voice taking on the tone that Fiddleford knew well enough—the _I don't want to talk about it, don't argue with me, let's just stop before we say something we'll both regret_ tone. “I'll show you everything we've been working on. Everything we've achieved here. You'll be completely floored when you see the project you'll be helping with.” 

 

“I've been around the country, Stanford,” Stanley said, “and out of it too. It's gonna take a lot to floor me, alright?” 

 

Fiddleford couldn't help the guffaws that left his lips when Stanley reacted to their half-built portal, Stanford's smug and amused laughter contagious. 

 

Of course, Stan had to retaliate by bringing up Fiddleford's own special reaction earlier. 

 

Stan never let him live it down. 

 

 


	5. The Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the three head into monster territory, and we head into Mystery Trio territory. 
> 
> Alternately called the incident which improved the relationship between Stanley and Fiddleford.

No matter how many times Stanford tried to convince Fiddleford that Stanley's taunts and teasing were just his way of showing affection, Fiddleford wouldn't buy it. Stan reminded him just a little too much of the bullies from when he was young and awkward and not quite as threatening as he'd become when people realized he could build dangerous weaponry out of school supplies and scrap.

 

He insisted he was still “trying things out” and “wasn't promising anything”, trying as hard as possible not to be too involved, and yet still hanging around the basement lab, enough for Fiddleford to take notice, and inevitably be distracted from his work. It was frustrating sometimes how difficult it seemed for Stanley to understand even simpler scientific concepts when Fiddleford tried to explain how everything worked, and even waved it off as “nerd talk he couldn't be bothered to listen to”. Even when he was the one who asked a question. It made Fiddleford feel like a cat who'd had his fur ruffled backwards.

 

He did help, though, whenever some heavy lifting needed to be done, or whenever they needed to test the activation and fail safe mechanisms (three keys instead of two, Fiddleford had insisted, so they wouldn't try anything without the other two backing them up), or even when Stanford needed to fetch groceries and was too busy running scenarios in his head to remember and Fiddleford had to reluctantly hand the shopping list and cash for Stanley to go into town.

 

“Stanford's terrible at remembering this kind of thing, even when he's usually so responsible about everything else,” Fiddleford muttered, surprised when Stanley responded. 

 

“I know, right? You know our mom, well, she and our dad thought Stanford was the special one, but whenever we went out she'd always tell me to make sure my brother didn't fall into a manhole or something. Every time we got him some new books from the library he wouldn't put 'em down, had to make sure he didn't get run over or whatever, he always had his nose in some new sci-fi novel. Once he's locked focus on something, it'd take something even _weirder_ to get his mind off it. That's part of why I kept dragging him on shoreline treasure hunts. He probably wouldn'a gotten any exercise otherwise.”

 

Fiddleford chuckled at the image of a young Ford never putting his chosen read down for a second, and wondered if it'd be rude to ask Stanley to share the parts of Ford's past that he'd never volunteered for their relation to his brother. That spanned most of childhood, since, as Ford had said before, it seemed like he and Stan had been inseparable.

 

He didn't ask, but he kept it in mind for later.

 

* * *

 

 

The one thing Fiddleford had to admit was how useful Stan was when it came to field work.

 

It was a riot the first time they went out and Stanley almost keeled over from the shock of what they first showed him—something decidedly tame, as they rustled through the bushes and found one of the gnomes sleeping under a tree with a squirrel in its lap.

 

It seemed to help some, though, as the idea of 'Ford Squared' going out looking for the supernatural seemed to galvanize Stanley's old resolve to protect his brother (even if Ford and even Fiddleford insisted he—they—didn't need protecting, they'd been doing this for years, please, Stanley). He wasn't the healthiest of the lot, having lived off what seemed to be whatever fast food was cheapest to get, but something about the whole situation made him seem much more energetic than the other two. When Fiddleford brought it up to Stanford, Ford shrugged, smiling, saying something about how Stan was always up for  adventure when they were kids, and how just like his own interest in the supernatural, Stan's spirit never actually went away. 

 

“That doesn't sound real. You're pulling my leg, that's not real.”

 

“Well to be fair we did make up the name,” Stanford said, shrugging. “But it's real, all right. We've only ever seen it from a distance, though, and I need to get in close to do a proper sketch.” 

 

“Sixer, I can already tell that this is a bad idea and I'm only seeing the thing's _shape_ on a _piece of paper._ Didn't you say it was the size of a bear or something? How in the H were you planning to get in close enough to look at it, let alone draw it? Just gonna schlep your tuchus into its magic cave hoping it won't notice you getting up in its face?” 

 

Fiddleford rolled his eyes when he heard a smack, followed by a loud string of curses from Stanley, wondering how it was that a man as intelligent as Stanford was reduced to the mindset of a five-year old when dealing with his brother.

 

“I have a plan, knucklehead. Trust me,” was all Stanford said. 

 

* * *

 

 

Fiddleford should have known better than to trust Stanford Pines. He was blinded by love, he supposed, if that was a thing that actually happened the way they said in the shows.

 

Ford's plan was well thought out, he supposed, involving tranquilizers for backup and a good deal of sneaking, but what he didn't take into consideration was the possibility that he tranquilizers that worked on most animals would not work on a supernatural beast, and it took them a couple of shots and the creature itself stumbling briefly before they realized that it wasn't gonna go down.

 

They were forced to split up as they ran down an incline of thick woodland, and Fiddleford lost sight of Stanford, though Stanley was close enough for him to spot as they hid, holding their breaths as the creature—the Gremloblin, they called it—lumbered around searching for them.

 

And because Fiddleford's luck was  _just that good,_ of course the creature found him first. 

 

And that was when the Gremloblin's other fascinating trait came to their knowledge, in a manner that was completely awful, if Fiddleford was going to be honest.

 

He adored Ford Pines. That was a long-established fact. But right at that very moment, he also hated Ford Pines more than anybody in the world.

 

Because if it wasn't for Ford Pines and his cockamamie schemes, Fiddleford wouldn't have ended up in this mess in the first place, staring into the eyes of a creature that could make him see his worst nightmare.

 

He wasn't even halfway through thinking about how much he hated Ford and how terrified he was when he felt himself fall, near to cracking his head against a wayward rock, pushing himself onto his hands as he watched the Gremloblin lumber towards Stan, who was waving his arms around like a lunatic, distracting the Gremloblin despite it not having noticed him before.

 

And now he was... punching it in the face?

 

“Fiddleford, are you alright?” Ford demanded, startling Fiddleford as he appeared from behind one of the other trees. “We have to get out of here!” 

 

“But Stan—”

 

“We can't just stand around when he jumped out to distract the thing to give us time to run,” Stanford said quickly, and Fiddleford couldn't argue the logic in that. “We have to find a way to stop it, or—”

 

Ford's explanation was cut off when they heard the very loud crack of something blunt impacting something equally blunt but much more breakable, and they watched as the Gremloblin whimpered and ran, Stan trying to catch his breath.

 

When it was gone, he began to laugh, a little maniacally, and Fiddleford watched him in disbelief as he punched the air in triumph, only to cry out and pull it back down just as quick.

 

“Stan, I cannot believed you punched a monster in the face!” Ford said as maddeningly triumphant as his brother seemed to be, though Fiddleford couldn't linger on surprise, and instead marched over, taking Stan's arm. 

 

“Let me see that!” Fiddleford said as Stan grinned at his brother. 

 

“Gave 'em the ol' one-two, you know,” he said, and Ford laughed heartily at that. 

 

“I got the smarts, you got the punching?” Ford said gently, affectionately. 

 

“And don't you forget it, poindex—ow! Sweet Moses, what do you think you're doing, nerd?” Stan demanded, flinching as Fiddleford held his injured fist and tried to get him to open his hand. 

 

“You're injured, you oaf! And if we don't get this fixed up soon, there might be some lasting damage. Oh, sweet sally, that doesn't look right,” Fiddleford muttered, finding some cloth to wrap Stan's hand enough to immobilize it until they could treat it properly. “Of all the foolhardy, cocked up things...”

 

“Yeah, you're welcome for saving your hide,” Stanley said sarcastically, though if Fiddleford wasn't mistaken, did he detect a hint of hurt under the pretense? 

 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, and Stan let him continue his first aid work without any more complaints. 

 


	6. Nightmares and new 'dos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford takes kinder to Stanley, first a little, then all at once.

Fiddleford had nightmares the following days, a side effect of his encounter with the Gremloblin's unusual power. Stanford seemed thoroughly intrigued, asking one question after another about how he felt, what he dreamt about. Stanley kept commenting on how Fiddleford should “excuse his brother for not having any concept of quitting while he's ahead and gauging human interaction”, and it was the first time Fiddleford preferred Stanley over Stanford in any situation.

 

The fact was, and Fiddleford wasn't too blind to see it, Stanley was trying to spare his feelings. And while Fiddleford thoroughly appreciated Stanford's unbending determination to chase down all avenues in the discovery of the unknown, when the unknown involved the nightmares Fiddleford never wished to revisit again, he preferred the more emotional, subjective approach.

 

The gremloblin perhaps didn't stare at him long enough for him to see more than a jumble of muted imagery which made him feel disturbed inside, though he couldn't quantify the reason for it. At least that was what he told Stanford to get him off his back.

 

“I'm sorry, Fidds,” Stanford said one night, when Fiddleford decided to stay up late, still wary of falling asleep and greeting the waiting nightmares.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“For putting you in that position. I honestly didn't want anybody to get hurt. I was stupid, and I'm sorry.”

 

Fiddleford put down his tools, making sure to wipe his hands before patting Ford's, smiling warmly at the man he loved.

 

“I knew the risks when I went with you, and I'm not sorry that you got the answers you were lookin' for. As for me getting hurt, Ford, I'm not solely your responsibility. I chose to be here, right by your side, and even if that means a bit of danger, well, it beats sitting around in a garage all day. But if it's really bothering you that much, then I accept your apology, alright?”

 

Ford brightened. “I'm glad. And I swear, I couldn't ask for a better assistant-slash-best friend to be with me on this. Thank you, Fiddleford. Thank you.”

 

Fiddleford turned away to hide his blush, but turned back briefly, enough to grin back at Ford, all teeth like his own smile.

 

* * *

 

When Fiddleford emerged from the basement that morning, the house quiet as it greeted the new day, he was surprised to find Stan sitting at the dining table with a mirror propped up in front of him and a pair of scissors in hand, trying to trim away the excessively long hair that was growing down the sides of his head.

 

“Mornin’ nerd,” Stan greeted absentmindedly as he passed him to get coffee.

 

“Mornin’ moron,” Fiddleford said through a yawn. Ever since the gremloblin incident their sniping had lulled to a light, familiar teasing, something like friendship, and even when they got on each other’s nerves, Fiddleford could see so much more in Stan than before.

 

“What’re you doin’ there?” he asked when he finally got some of nature’s elixir in him.

 

“I’m doing my taxes, what does it look like I’m doing?” said Stan dryly, and Fiddleford rolled his eyes.

 

“It looks like you’re butchering your own head. There are barbers out in town, you know.”

 

Stanley snorted. “Why would I pay somebody to do something I can do myself?”

 

Fiddleford opened his mouth to respond, only for Stan to add “Not like I have the cash to spare for that kinda luxury anyway, and I doubt Stanford would want me wasting his grocery money.”

 

That information had Fiddleford reeling with how obvious that should have been, even if he never even considered it before. The fact that Stan considered something as simple as a haircut a luxury really drove the point home.

 

“I could… I mean I could pay…”

 

“Can it, twerp,” Stan said harshly. “I don’t need your damn sympathy over a fucking haircut.”

Fiddleford frowned, standing up and marching over to Stan, surprising the other man for a satisfying second.

 

Then Fiddleford deflated, gently taking the scissors from Stan’s hand.

 

“Look, let me do the rest. Don’t want your big fat hands messing this up,” he joked.

 

“Just because your freakishly long fingers can play America’s favorite southern stereotype in musical instrument form…” Stan responded, and Fiddleford was glad he was standing behind the other man so he wouldn’t see the huge smile that broke out on his face as he set to work.

 

At the end of it, Fiddleford was surprised by how well the new cut 'do suited the man whose previous look had seemed like it belonged to well-to-do hobo.

 

“Not bad, not bad at all,” Stan said, unable to mask the pleasure in his voice as he looked himself over in the mirror.

 

“Pure luck,” Fiddleford said, a bit giddily. “Good thing I got it right before I cut you bald.”

 

“Probably woulda been better than the mullet,” Stan said good-humoredly. “But just barely. Damn, I can actually feel a breeze on my neck. It's been a while.”

 

“Stan... would you mind me asking... I mean, what with the hair...” Fiddleford said, uncertain of where he was trying to direct the question.

 

“Ah, well. That's the kind of 'do you get when you're running from some homicidal Colombian gang and can't stop for a good shave,” Stan said casually, and Fiddleford's eyes widened, his mouth hanging open.

 

“Hey, don't worry about it. They didn't know my real name, and last they saw me I looked more like poindexter up there than I did myself.”

 

“That's not makin' me feel any better!” Fiddleford said, a bit hysterically.

 

“Relax, jeez. I shook 'em at least five states back, and they can't cross state lines as easy as I can. Plus I'm pretty sure they think I'm dead. Or something. Either way, I didn't tell anybody where I was going, so I'm kind of on the low right now.”

 

“So you're using your brother to hide from some Colombian gang lord,” Fiddleford sighed, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

 

“And my brother is using me and my situation to do him favors after almost a decade of not speaking to me or forgiving me, so yeah. We're kind of a matched set of fuckups here,” Stan said blandly.

 

Fiddleford couldn't really argue with that, could he?

 

Stan told him he'd go find something fresh to wear, going upstairs to the room Ford had provided for him, but stopped halfway up to call down at Fiddleford. “Thanks a lot,” he said sincerely, and Fiddleford felt his heart warm as he called back a cursory “You're welcome” to Stanley's retreating back.

 

They were getting along. Fiddleford never thought it would happen, but here he was, grinning and tapping his foot against the wood floor with the new and happy development.

 

Just as Ford emerged from his room to search for breakfast, Stan came back down, and Ford laughed while Fiddleford could only gape.

 

“Going back to your old look?” Ford said between chuckles. “You're not in high school anymore, Stanley.”

 

“Hey, I'll have you know I've gotten pretty lucky with the ladies with this look,” Stan said with a flourish, “and just because I used to wear it when I was pimple-faced back in high school doesn't mean it doesn't look perfect on me now, right, Fidds?”

 

Fiddleford snapped to attention, feigning casualness as he shrugged. “It, uh... It certainly looks better than your driftin' grifter style, not that that's saying much,” he teased, and Stan flipped him off, causing him to devolve into laughter just as Ford was doing.

 

The laughs helped hide just how flushed Fiddleford was, looking at Stanley all done up in a tight white shirt and scuffed blue jeans. Oh lord almighty, but he was a sight, and Fiddleford resented his heart for fluttering a little as he looked.

 

Oh no.

 

Nope. No. This was not...

 

No.

 


	7. A shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things change for the better (?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter IN A HURRY  
> HAPPY SHIPPING

He felt guilty for doing it, but Fiddleford was well aware that he'd been snapping at Stanley Pines a lot more than usual lately. He couldn't help it, but he also couldn't help notice Stan becoming incensed at the treatment, not that he could blame him.

 

They'd made such progress too, and then Fiddleford had to _ruin_ it with his damn... his damn _feelings_ like an idiot. 

 

It was like somebody had taken the fuel from the flame he had for Stanford Pines and then decided to light a whole new fire, one that wasn't all intellectual connection and decided instead on sheer unadulterated attraction. Because Stanley Pines, as ashamed as Fiddleford was to admit it, was attractive as hell, and nothing like Stanford at all. 

 

It only got worse when Fiddleford walked in on him one day in one of the spare rooms, going to town with what looked to be a makeshift punching bag, showing off the muscles in his arms that had become soft from a bad diet and no time to train properly but had never really gone away, especially not from any disuse. 

 

Fiddleford had retreated from Stan when the full force of his attraction hit him square in the gut, one day when they were out looking for the legendary hide-behind, and Stan had thrown an arm around Fiddleford's shoulders and pressed him to his side, making Fiddleford's heart skip a beat. 

 

The worst part was, Fiddleford hadn't even gotten over Stanford. It made him feel a bit sick to look at one twin and still feel the same warmth and love and devotion, but then look at the other and feel a spike of lust wrapped in affection, and it made him feel trapped on all sides. He threw himself into his work, speaking only to Stanford of work and barely speaking to Stan at all. 

 

It came to a head one day when Stanford went to catalogue his findings on the hide-behind on his own, leaving Stan to look after the house while Fiddleford had been in the basement, unaware of Ford's parting. 

 

When he finally came up for air, Fiddleford found himself in a familiar situation, with him entering the kitchen and finding Stanley Pines already there, sitting alone. When Fiddleford entered, the other man glared at him while Fiddleford busied himself with making coffee and taking a few pieces of bacon from the countertop, trying to make himself look impassive. 

 

“Look, was it something I did?” 

 

Fiddleford was caught by surprise by how... how incredibly sad Stan sounded, as opposed to angry, which was what he'd initially expected. 

 

“I know I mess up a lot—god knows I've done a shitton of stuff I'm not proud of, and a lot of my life is a series of fuckups that I keep making, but... I don't know, I thought we were finally getting along. Or was I wrong about that?” 

 

“Oh, Stan,” Fiddleford said, feeling all the guilt eat away at his fear. “Oh no, you haven't done anything wrong. You've been a great help, and an invaluable part of this team, and... and you've been a good friend. It's not anything you did, it's my fault, I'm so sorry.” 

 

“Then... is this about my brother? Because I know you like him...” 

 

Fiddleford nearly dropped the plate he was holding at Stan's words, and his head shot up from where he'd been bobbing it a bit apologetically. 

 

“You—what? No, I... I don't know what you're talkin' about...” 

 

Stan gave him a look that Fiddleford realized was the same look he always gave Stan when they were talking about scientific theory. The look made him feel stupid, and again he cursed himself in his guilt for ever making the sweet, so unwittingly sweet, Stan Pines feel the same. 

 

“Look, I may not be a genius like you and my brother, but I've been in sales since I was fresh outta high school. I know how to read people, and you're kind of an open book. Lucky for you, my brother's brains all went into his science and didn't leave any space for reading a social situation. So I doubt he ever figured you got it bad for him, and honestly I don't think he'd get it even if you told him.” 

 

Fiddleford groaned, slumping over the kitchen counter. “Oh, Stan, I'm so sorry.” 

 

Stan raised an eyebrow over his mug of coffee. “Sorry?” he repeated incredulously. 

 

“You must be awfully disgusted,” Fiddleford continued, hiding his face in his hands. 

 

“Disgusted? What're you on about?” 

 

“I mean, if you noticed me makin' moon eyes at your brother, gosh it must've been... ugh I feel so embarrassed.” 

 

“Hey, hey, I've been around the world, okay?” Stan said soothingly, reaching out to pat Fiddleford's hand. “I've seen lots of people, and lots of things you couldn't even begin to imagine that warrant real disgust. You liking my brother isn't even on the list. Like I said, I've been around, and different strokes, right? I ain't judging nobody for who they set their moon eyes on.” 

 

Fiddleford stiffened when Stan threw an arm around him, patting him on the shoulder, his eyes widening at the contact. 

 

“Is that why you've kinda been avoiding me for the past week? Did you think I'd be mad or whatever?” 

 

“No, Stan, that's not why,” Fiddleford said. 

 

“Look, you can be honest with me. I know I'm a liar, a conman, a grifter, and I'm not allowed in a couple of states, but I can keep a secret. You don't have to feel like you gotta hide anything around me.” 

 

Fiddleford's heart warmed at his words, at how genuine they were. He owed Stan a bit of honesty, and he knew he was right. 

 

Even if he'd shouted his confessions from the roof of the house, he didn't think Stanford would much care, and that hurt him—but not as much as it might have before. 

 

“I uh... I did like your brother. Ever since college. He was quite a character, and everybody in the block admired him.” 

 

“Oh-hoh, old Fordsy being the popular nerd kid? Good on him,” Stan said, but quieted for Fiddleford to continue. Fiddling with the top button of his shirt, he did. 

 

“And yeah I did feel a bit threatened by you when you came round. The first time, I really was afraid you'd figure out my secret and ruin everythin', but...” 

 

“But?” 

 

“But then you saved me, and we got along, and you were happy, and, that is... Stan, the reason I've been so cold lately is because I felt so damn guilty I didn't know what to do. See, the thing is...” 

 

The arm shifted off his shoulders and Fiddleford knew that Stan, Stan who could read situations well as anything, knew exactly what he meant to say, and he felt his heart plunge into the pit of his stomach at the rejection. He braced himself for the cruel words, for the rejection, heck, maybe even a punch—

 

But what he got was a hand on his neck and warm, if chapped lips against his own, and his body responded long before his mind could process what had happened. 

 

Feverishly, all his fears thrown away to the wind, Fiddleford kissed Stanley Pines back for a good long while, even as their coffee cooled and quiet reigned, only broken by the sounds they made together. 

 

 


End file.
